


For Him

by JuggiesBuggie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Riverdale - Fandom
Genre: Light Angst, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13981023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuggiesBuggie/pseuds/JuggiesBuggie
Summary: A short poem from Betty's POV about her scars and her life.





	For Him

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, This is my first time posting any sort of fan fiction so I hope you enjoy. I wrote it from Betty's POV and I had to try my best to make it believable so it does seem like it's glorifying self harm. I didn't make it for that reason to begin with, it just happened that way. I do not think self harm is a good option but as a writer I had to try and make it believable. 
> 
> -Sal

You may look at the scars littered around my palms thinking, “how could she do that to herself?”

But let me tell you,

I don’t just decide I want to hurt myself.

I do it with care.

Each nail digs into the soft skin with as much thought and effort I could muster.

Each different crescent has a meaning.

 

One is for the boy next door,

whose red hair I used to love.

The one I thought I was destined for.

His football jersey and his guitar used to make me swoon,

Seeing him out my window smiling to myself.

But now they don’t,

my eyes are on a different prize.

A dark haired beanie wearing prize.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Another cut upon my hand is for my dark black wig.

At first it’s used to pounce and kill,

but when I put it on I feel a surge,

sexy, bold. . .

new.

Daringly I push him against the mattress,

his hands wander to my face

pushing the bob off my head,

letting my blonde locks fall free.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Next is for my raven haired princess,

her life filled with drama and spice,

red heads and pearls.

Her deviant family making deals against our town,

they strolled up in a limo,

a bouquet of roses in one hand and New York pastries in the other.

Her life is a hole,

family drama,

boyfriend drama,

so I cuddle her in my arms till morning.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Another is for those diner trips,

juicy burgers and frothy milkshakes topped high with whipped cream.

A booth for four we say,

sliding on the cushion, closer to the window,

closer to each other.

Our teenage hearts in each other’s clasps as we laugh about meaningless things.

Until one day those sacred moments were sucked up as if with a straw.

We talked about the gunshot the morning of July 4th.  

We talked about the death of our old music teacher.

We talked about Mayor McCoy being blackmailed.

And then we didn’t talk at all.

A crescent goes to that.

 

One is for the sheriff’s son,

satchel bags and gossip.

His fingers clacking away as he fills his column.

Our childhood board games next to his bed,

we’d play until the sun rose, giggling the town awake.

“Oh he’s cute” you would say.

“Not as cute as you” I would joke back.

But then our clasp began to loosen,

he would start hanging out with a cat-ear wearing celebrity,

I would hang out with a pearly princess.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Next is for the big large house sitting on the hill.

Their red hair up against their pale skin.

Their name means flower, pretty and poised,

but they are anything but.

Their screaming can be heard, miles down the road,

dirty words and shotguns thrown like darts.

She would flee in search of love,

but she found none.

So she resorted to the river,

cold and deep,

drowning out her feelings though people yelled and screamed.

She broke through the ice,

it was all too much for her to handle.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Another is for my pink collared shirts,

the sleeves pulled down to cover my scars.

You would look once and see a sweater,

pink and soft,

but underneath is something more,

There’s lace and straps covering me up.

So when he lifts the hem of the pink fabric,

I will be ready.

A crescent goes to that.

 

One is for the four blond beauties,

We stand as a perfect bunch.

But we’re torn and scratched and bruised inside.

My mother’s blown out hair,

A girl on the outside,

a woman on the inside.

My sister’s baby blue baby bump,

She is poised on the outside,

Ripped on the inside.

My father’s broad shoulders,

Which fail to hold us,

Support us.

His mind is broken in all different ways,

He married the blonde.

He wants the red head.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Next is for the bottle, filled to the rim with small capsules,

each one helping me breath.

They get me up each day,

a smile on my face.

One of the only reasons I’m living right now.

But I can easily swallow it all,

stopping all forms off pain with just a few gulps.

I imagine my mom walking in on me, laying on the tiled floor,

the empty bottle fallen next to me.

A crescent goes to that.

 

Last is for him.

The beanie pulled down,

a single curl gone loose.

His bright blue eyes see right through my green ones.

He knows my body like he’s lived in it for years,

like it’s his home,

and he swears it is.

He kisses down my neck,

resting on my bare collarbone.

He loves every part of me.

My red headed neighbor.

My black bob.

My pearl necklace bestie.

My burger and milkshake trips.

My gossip loving author.

My red haired cousin.

My sweaters covering my darkness.

My broken family.

My helpful pills.

He loves it all.

You want to know how I know?

Because in the depths of the night,

as our naked bodies lay in bed,

our legs tangled around each other’s,

he lifts up my frail hands,

and he presses his lips against each of the crescents, scattered around my palms.

And after every kiss he whispers,

“I love you.”

And I know he means it.

 

So when you see my ripped up hands and you think “why would she do that to her pretty hands?”

Know that I do it with care.

Know that it’s my cure.

I have the ten deep cuts across the soft skin,

each is red and throbbing,

but each means something to me.

I don’t do it for no reason.

I do it for me.

I do it for him.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If any of you are having trouble with self harm or just depression and/or anxiety, I encourage you to talk to someone. My inbox is always open on Tumblr @geekishlygreat . I love you all and thank you for reading. 
> 
> -Sal


End file.
